Freak
by xfphile
Summary: It is a widely-acknowledged fact that John Watson – doctor, army captain, flatmate/bodyguard/buffer for the world's only consulting detective – is loyal to a fault.
1. Truth

Title: Freak

Author: xfphile

Pairing: none

Summary: It is a widely-acknowledged fact that John Watson – doctor, army captain, flatmate/bodyguard/buffer for the world's only consulting detective – is loyal to a fault.

Archive: Sure! Just let me know where.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I saw nothing, I know nothing. It all belongs to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and everyone else I can't remember right now.

A/N: This is my take on why John Watson, who shot a man to save Sherlock Holmes shortly after meeting him, says and does nothing about the constant verbal assaults made by Scotland Yard.

I welcome concrit of any sort. Flames, however, will be captured in a jar, magnified, and returned to sender.

Also, this is unbeta'd, so any and all grammatical errors are mine.

It is a widely-acknowledged fact that John Watson – doctor, army captain, flatmate/bodyguard/buffer for the world's only consulting detective – is loyal to a fault. After all, he was injured and finally invalided home from Afghanistan after breaking cover to pull two fellow officers to safety, not to mention being the best friend of and flatmate to said consulting detective. As such, his . . . passivity . . . regarding the vitriol and hostility so frequently prevalent from certain members of Scotland Yard toward Sherlock Holmes was surprising to those who knew of it.

This did not, of course, prevent them from taking advantage of it, as his silence indicated approval – in their minds, at least.

That this was completely contrary to his established character utterly escaped them.

Mycroft knew, of course, and Lestrade had a fairly good idea as to _why_ John never said anything when those sneers of 'freak!' were thrown at Sherlock. That they never said anything about it was a testament to Mycroft's . . . something . . . and Lestrade's good sense. They both knew Sherlock, after all.

However, John's patience was not infinite. For Sally Donovan in particular and several other Scotland Yard personnel in general, this would be a very painful – but highly effective – lesson.

The afternoon of the afore-mentioned lesson found John Watson at the second-nearest Tesco's from Baker Street (the first having banned him not because of something Sherlock had done – as was the common assumption – but because John had almost destroyed their chip-and-PIN machine by beating it with a carton of chocolate ice cream), getting basic foodstuffs for the flat and bleach for Sherlock.

He had, in fact, been pondering the hostility and childishness that was so frequently directed at his friend, and trying to work out possible solutions. He hated – no, he _despised_ the never-ending epitaphs of 'freak' and 'psychopath,' and he was about 3 seconds away from pitching someone out the window the next time he heard a variant of 'gets off on it.' That said, John was fully aware of the fact that Sherlock frequently acted with just as much childishness and hostility. The difference between the consultant and the Yarders, however, was profound to John. He wasn't Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes (thank the good Lord), but neither was he stupid or unobservant. And what he had observed with regards to the interactions between his flatmate and Yarders was this:

Sherlock Holmes rarely fired the first true salvo.

Oh, he was more than happy to announce that any- and everyone were idiots, but that was his default setting. It wasn't, as a rule, meant to be a specific insult. Not that this made it any easier to swallow when one is, say, coming home from a 14-hour shift that involved a lorry hitting 3 cars or responding to a triple-homicide, of which two of the deaths were children. But. Not a deliberate insult, just Sherlock being himself.

And, as such, John was perfectly fine with the 'idiot' in question telling Sherlock off; had, in fact, done it himself too many times to count. And, though his behavior regarding random people on the streets . . . really wasn't any different at all, actually, he had gotten better about sneering at John. Well, for a given value of 'better.'

But the seemingly never-ending 'freak' that certain members of the Yard were so fond of had grated on his nerves from the beginning. In fact, those first 3 or so months after moving in with Sherlock, John had actually left the scene or office several times, because it was the only way to keep himself from punching someone in the throat. They didn't have to _like_ Sherlock – he did, in fact, understand full well why they didn't, though he disagreed with their reasoning – but they were POLICE OFFICERS. He expected at least a modicum of professionalism from them.

But John never said anything, because multiple exposures to various forms of genius had well-prepared him for Sherlock – not the intensity, no, because that kind of mind comes along maybe twice in a generation, and Sherlock was currently running a tight race with Tony Stark for sheer, unparalleled brilliance, but the substance of him. And the most important thing John Watson had learned about genius is this: it is frail beyond all imagination. That bright, incandescent intelligence hides a soul that is more fragile than tissue paper could ever dream of being. Also, with that sort of intelligence, being a child prodigy the way a genius cannot help but be, it is almost inevitable that the prodigy will be eagerly (at first) scooped up and nurtured, while the child is forgotten, ignored, disregarded. And in Sherlock's case, John strongly suspected, the prodigy would also be discarded, neglected, maybe even abused, once the scope of the disparity between child and adult (parent) was truly visible.

As such, John never dared defend Sherlock or take his tormenter down a peg or seven, because he was never actually alone with those who abused his friend long enough to make the lesson effective, and he knew better than to say anything in front of Sherlock. John shuddered at the very idea. If he were to defend The Great Sherlock Holmes from mere words in front of the man, the scathing rebuke and week-long tantrum would only be the beginning of his punishment, which John quite honestly wanted nothing to do with. But worse, if John defended him publicly, Sherlock would feel – call it infantilized, if you will. Helpless. Weak. Unable to deal with something as insignificant as words.

And that, John Watson would not do to his best friend.

Thus, he found himself in a quandary, for he was sick to death of the constant sniping and general attitude from too many of New Scotland Yard's finest. Things were rapidly reaching a boiling point, as the viciousness was steadily increasing and the subtlety vanishing at an equal rate, and something would give soon. It had to. And when the inevitable happened, John would prefer that London remain standing.

And God, it seemed, agreed with him, for on that fortuitous day, John Watson received a text from Lestrade, advising that there had been a third murder and would he please come with 'that brilliant pain in my arse.' Of even greater fortune – for John – the address was a mere block or so from Tesco. He sent a 'yes' to Lestrade before taking a few minutes to put back the groceries he'd gathered; it was bloody frustrating when one headed to the peanut butter section only to find a can of black olives hiding your brand, because the shopper in question was too damned lazy to walk 4 feet to the left and put the olives back where they went.

When John arrived at the scene, he was startled to find that he'd beaten not only Sherlock, but Lestrade as well. The only police present, actually, were Sally Donovan and three uniforms who were in the process of cordoning off the area. The situation was both good and bad – good, because it gave him a chance to tell Donovan off before Sherlock got there; bad, because he still hadn't decided how best to go about it. Shouting at her would be beneath him, after all – not to mention worthless, as she would simply climb on her high horse and start expounding about 'the freak' interfering with her crime scene, and they'd be back to square one.

John was still pondering his options when God – who had apparently taken an interest in things – decided to give him a hand. His mobile trilled a call at him and a quick glance at the caller ID showed his best chance to be one Mike Stamford. Feeling no small amount of relief (and smugness), John answered.

"Hey, Mike, how's it going?" he almost chirped. God, this was going to feel good. He needed to keep himself reined in, though – this was a lesson, not the opening salvo of World War III.

A bemused Stamford replied, "I'm fine, mate. Just wanted to see what you were up to; your blog's been quiet this week."

John chuckled and said, "Yeah, I know. Sherlock was bemoaning London's well-behaved criminals yesterday."

His peripheral vision caught Donovan's disgusted look and John inwardly grinned. It was almost indecent at how much he was looking forward to this, for he had decided to give the decidedly unpleasant woman a taste of her own medicine – and Mike, bless him, inadvertently provided the perfect opening.

"Well, I hope it gets better for you, John," he laughed. "Didn't Himself try to blow up Big Ben the last time he had a vacation?"

"God, don't remind me," John groaned. "It's a good thing I've done the tourist thing, because I can never go back. But, things are looking up. I'm at a scene now, watching the adulterous bitch tape off the area, and waiting for Sherlock."

There was a long pause, both on the phone and at the scene. John had been expecting it, so he took the occasion to covertly observe the uniforms. He knew what Donovan's reaction would be, and it was the underlings who actually mattered in this case. He caught a hastily-hidden grin and two less (read: not) hidden frowns. Hmm. Better than he was expecting.

On the phone, Mike finally replied, his voice cautious. "Umm . . . John? What – what's the matter?"

Allowing some of his satisfaction to slip free, John said, "Nothing. I just thought I'd get a head start on throwing insults today." He could _hear_ Mike blink as he processed that, and continued before his friend could say anything.

"Hey, Mike, it's been good to hear from you. We need to get together; how about I call you this weekend and we'll grab a drink?"

And now the caution had changed to confusion; John made a mental note to apologize in the form of rugby tickets. "Sure. Are you sure everything's okay, John?"

John infused his voice with warmth, firmly saying, "I promise, Mike. Everything is good. I'll tell you more the next time I see you, alright?"

Stamford was reluctant to let it go, but knew John well enough not to push, and said so. John had been counting on that, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief at his reply.

"Okay. Have fun and tell Sherlock I said 'hello.' And you take care of yourself, John. Talk to you this weekend."

"Will do, Mike. Go terrorize some baby med students, yeah?"

A laugh was his only answer before the call ended, and John savored that rush of a truly good friendship for a few seconds before finally deigning to acknowledge Donovan by looking at her.

She was furious, but controlling it remarkably well. Only her eyes, which actually looked a little like someone had lit a firecracker in them, showed her rage. The tension in her body could easily be attributed to the rather gruesome body – was it _stapled_ to that fire escape?! – behind her. He let the silence stretch out a little longer, taking grim satisfaction in the fact that Donovan had given him the power in this little confrontation, even if she didn't know it.

He let the tension continue until it started to feel uncomfortable, then shattered it with a firm – though not particularly loud – "What do you want, whore?"

The sound of four people simultaneously sucking in a breath was funny, though John was careful to keep it off his face. He was walking a fine line and wasn't going to let things degenerate into slapstick. Donovan, for her part, looked like she'd been slapped.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" she demanded, making no effort to keep her voice contained. John said nothing but stared her down until she blinked. Then he struck.

"Well, since you're so fond of throwing Sherlock's 'inadequacies' into everyone's faces, I figured it was time I got in on it. I must say, it's rather cathartic. Wouldn't you agree, Sally?"

Silence fell again, and a certain stillness John recognized from Afghanistan. His senses gave him a soft chime of 'danger' and he drew in a deep breath, straightening his posture into 'attention' while his gaze continued to bore into hers. Donovan swallowed hard before meeting his eyes again, and the rage there would have given most men pause.

John Watson was not most men.

"What the hell are you doing?" she ground out, her accent thickening and her cheeks flushing red. "You will not talk that way to an officer of New Scotland Yard."

"Why?"

It was a calm, quiet question, holding only curiosity. Anyone overhearing John would think him merely inquisitive about, say, David Beckham's chances in the next U.S./London soccer match. To the officers on the scene, though . . . no, there was nothing mild or inquisitive in that word, soft though it was. And it got all three uniforms to start thinking – about Sherlock, about Donovan, about their own assumptions and corresponding behavior . . . had John known this, he might have a done a small victory jig, because that was a major component of his endgame. Sherlock wasn't innocent in the hostilities with Scotland Yard, but neither was he the sole instigator – and NEVER was he ever and always the only one at fault, which was the other thing that truly rankled John.

Everyone at Scotland Yard (even Lestrade) acted like Sherlock deserved the constant vitriol and disrespect, while simultaneously demanding that he solve the heinous murder/baffling robbery/mysterious kidnapping, and it had, quite frankly, gone far beyond pissing his best friend off.

Hence, his non-guilty enjoyment of force-feeding it to Sally Donovan, who was one of the worst offenders.

Donovan spluttered incoherently for a bit at his calm rebuttal, looking remarkably like the collie John had had as a child – eyes bulged out in shock, chest heaving with angry breaths, and her hair starting to frizz from the gathering humidity.

"WHY?!" she finally exploded, the last vestige of control gone. "Because I'm a bloody police officer who has worked my arse off to get where I am –-"

"And is knowingly sleeping with a married man," John cut across her, his voice firm and demanding. "Like I said: whore. Or did you prefer adulterous bitch?"

Donovan actually went purple. John thought for a minute that she would try to attack him, but the uniforms watching this little drama play out like it was the latest episode of _Downton Abbey_ held her in check. He continued before she could regain her equilibrium, grim determination overcoming his enjoyment. He was done with this, and even if he weren't, Sherlock would be arriving any minute. This had to be finished.

"How dare you?" Donovan choked out, guilt flashing behind the rage in her eyes.

"Really, Sally?" John drawled, crossing his arms. "Every time you see him – and every time I hear you talk about him – you call Sherlock 'freak' and don't think twice. Why is that, I wonder? I mean, yeah, it's amazing that he has the ability to see so many details that us regular people don't, and I'll grant you it's almost magical how he's able to put those pieces together into a cohesive whole, but why does that make him a freak?"

This question _was _an honest inquiry, because John wanted to know. To him, what Sherlock did was incredible, beautiful, and special, and he genuinely wanted to know what it was that so offended – well, Donovan. He understood full well that Sherlock's complete lack of brain-to-mouth filter was off-putting, but it wasn't like that was a new thing, so there had to be something else. And, if Donovan had a legitimate reason, John was prepared to cut her some slack.

Unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken, Donovan snapped, "Because it's freakish and no normal, sane person can see everything and he gets off on it and can't even be bothered to pretend to care about the victims and BECAUSE HE'S A FREAK!"

Her voice had steadily gotten louder during her diatribe and by the end of the sentence, she was shouting. John regarded her evenly, though his calm expression did nothing to hide his contempt.

"'Gets off on it,' Sally?" he sneered. "You're a bloody cop! Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that you don't enjoy putting the puzzle together and solving the mystery? Really? Because if you do, that makes just as big a liar as you are a hypocrite."

This condemnation set her off again. "He doesn't even get paid for it! How the hell is that normal?!"

Disgust and contempt colored every word of John's reply. "If we were talking about sex instead of murder, Donovan, that would make you a prostitute." Ignoring her incoherent objection, John coldly continued, "He doesn't accept payment from the Yard because he won't be beholden to you – and I do not blame him in the slightest. And because I'm done with this and you, here's how it's going to work."

He paused here, giving her a chance to calm down and surreptitiously surveying the uniformed cops who had abandoned any attempt at subtlety in favor of gawking at the two of them – and he was pleased to see that all three officers looked thoughtful behind the fascination of watching a Detective Sergeant and a respected doctor who was also a veteran (never mind being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate) square off like they were on that dreadful American show Jeffrey Springer or Sanger or whatever the hell it was.

"If you refer to Sherlock as a freak or a psychopath or anything along those lines in front of him or me again, I will not stop myself, Donovan. I'm done. And you tell Anderson, too, and that prat Stiver – I don't care if you like Sherlock, but by God, you WILL treat him with the respect accorded a human being, or I will start doing damage."

Donovan had recovered some of her poise by then, and at his last sentence, she sneered. "Is that a threat, _Doctor _Watson?"

John met her eyes with perfect equanimity and said, "Of course not. It's a warning. Grow up, or suffer the consequences."

She opened her mouth, doubtless to squawk about his disrespect, but John hadn't been joking about being done with the situation and with her. Also, Sherlock was stepping out of a cab. He turned on his heel and walked away, considering a final parting shot before deciding against it. He'd said his piece and made his point; anything else would be overkill. As he crossed the scene to meet his friend, a genuine smile came to his lips. He hadn't seen much of the man these past few days and had missed him.

"Hey, Sherlock," he greeted the other man. "Looks like the criminal element heard your plea. Looks like it's a good one, too."

"Doubtless," Sherlock sniffed. "Still, anything is better than drowning in boredom, so here I am."

"Yeah, well, be nice, okay? I mean, we could be doing something for Mycroft."

They both took a moment to shudder at the thought before Sherlock stepped past him, heading for the body.

As always, John followed, satisfaction curling through him. He couldn't protect Sherlock from everything, but that was no reason not to try.

And, God willing, this time he'd succeeded.

_finis_


	2. Consequences

A fuming Sally Donovan watched John Watson walk away from her without so much as hesitating, never mind looking back, after threatening to assault her if she called the freak by his proper (well, okay, accurate) name again. She truly couldn't decide what infuriated her the most: the fact that Watson had threatened her, that he had done so over Sherlock bloody Holmes, or that he'd had the audacity to throw her affair with Stewart Anderson in her face. As if sleeping with a married man (who was in no way reluctant to come to her bed) was the same as being a freak who got off on solving murders!

Her temper wasn't helped by the fact that during the entire confrontation, Watson had been calm, collected, and self-possessed, whereas she (and Donovan was self-aware enough to admit it) had let her feelings get away from her more than once and had doubtless come off as utterly unreasonable – if not hysterical.

Which just pissed her off more.

As she watched the freak stalk toward the body stapled (stapled?!) to the fire escape, his tagalong following, Sally Donovan felt the first true stirrings of hatred. She'd never liked Sherlock Holmes, not from the moment she'd first seen him. Even now, almost three years later, the memory of him swanning onto the crime scene like he owned it while insulting Lestrade's intelligence without even looking at him, could still set her off. Worse had been his complete dismissal of her – being both a woman and black, Sally had spent far too much of her life overcoming these pre-built handicaps to ever put up with being dismissed (a small part of her whispered sometimes that it wasn't personal; the freak dismissed everybody as beneath him. Like a disproportionally large number of human beings, Sally seldom listened to that part of herself. She would have been shocked into a coma to know that Sherlock Holmes occasionally had the same thought – and reaction.).

So. Sally had never liked the freak, and time had only nurtured the feeling. His smug superiority, his condescending attitudes, and his insufferable arrogance made it beyond easy to dislike him, and his abrasive personality put paid to any attempt at getting to know him that a sane person might have made (but there was Lestrade, and that morgue worker Hooper, and a DCI who had transferred to Surrey with the promotion, and Lestrade's newbie Hopkins, and his old landlady, and some Italian restaurant guy, and -). Anyway, he was easy to dislike. In addition, his frustrating habit of being right caused resentment to breed as well and when it was paired with his attitude that the world was too stupid to breathe, people's dislike joined their resentment and bred contempt. Thus, Sally felt perfectly justified in her actions and had no qualms about calling things like she saw them.

Or in calling the freak a freak.

Thus, John Watson calling her out like she was a bloody schoolgirl or a fresh-faced chit barely out of primary, rankled deeply. She could grudgingly admit that the freak had gotten more tolerable since his tagalong had arrived, but that in no way gave him license to call her names or tell her to grow up. The sheer presumption was enough to leave her breathless, and she damned well wasn't to going to meekly accept his ultimatum! Like he had any power over her, or would follow through on his threat. Still, she wasn't stupid, and despite her fury at Watson, she had every intention of biding her time. Just because Lestrade kept calling the freak in for consults didn't mean she had to like it.

And one way or another, she was going to put the freak's tagalong in his place.

To Sally's own surprise, it took almost a month before her hatred of the freak finally exceeded her control.

The crime was grisly even by Lestrade's team's standards (really, it was sad that Lestrade had his own qualifier on such things). There were enough body parts in the dumpster to make at least five people, and they had either been killed extremely recently or the killer had brought a bucket (or 3) of blood with him. Two of the uniforms had already lost their last meal and Sally was hard-pressed not to join them. It was only her iron-clad will that kept her upright.

So, already tense from the murders and stressed from keeping her body under control, it was only inevitable that the arrival of the freak lit the fires of her hatred. The sight of Watson following him (as ever) only fanned the flames, especially since his humiliation of her (in from of junior officers, no less!) was seldom far from her thoughts.

"Hello, Sally," Holmes' deep baritone drawled, as the man himself strolled up to her – and in her present state, petty though even Sally knew it was, him being so much taller than her (and thus, forcing her to look up), just pissed her off more.

"Hello, Freak," she sniped back, not even gracing Watson with a glance as he stood behind his friend's shoulder.

The freak didn't even roll his eyes. He merely stepped past her and made a beeline for the dumpster, Watson following a mere step behind. Neither man gave her so much as a glance.

This observation made Sally smirk. She'd disobeyed Watson's directive (as if he had the right to give her orders) and he'd done nothing. Clearly, she'd placed far too much emphasis on her conversation with the tagalong a month ago. It was time to take the initiative and re-establish the natural order of things.

So, while the freak swanned around and poked, peered, and prodded at everything under the sun, those crazy blue-grey eyes glinting with sheer enjoyment (the sight of which only served to fuel her anger; those remains had once been PEOPLE and they deserved respect), Sally took the occasion to fall back into familiar patterns. She made sure not to over-do it, but she also made no effort to rein herself in. And all the while, Watson never once looked at her. This complete lack of contact should have concerned her (and indeed, Sally's instincts were chiming a warning), but she was too involved in getting even with the freak to pay attention.

After nearly ten minutes, Lestrade finally stepped in and demanded an update. The freak did his usual act, posturing and spitting out his 'deductions' at a rapid pace. The DI was so rattled by the sheer viciousness of the crime that he didn't even snap at Sherlock for his arrogance, which also annoyed Sally. Lestrade was a bloody good cop, as were his team members, and there was no reason that he should a) have to call in the freak for help, and b) put up with the abuse and insults the man hurled like a bleeding javelin (_A Knight's Tale_ had been on the telly last night).

"Oh, don't be dull, Lestrade! Of _course_ it's a butcher! Who else would have access to that much blood without rousing suspicion?"

"Umm . . . a med student," one of the uniforms – Fletcher – ventured. The freak turned to him, a scathing remark so clearly on his tongue that Lestrade flinched and Fletcher stumbled back a step.

And then Watson put a firm hand on the freak's arm, and he stilled, took a deep breath, and visibly grabbed for patience before answering.

And every person on the scene was shocked speechless when his reply was lacking everything but sarcasm.

"A medical student – or, indeed, anyone in that profession – could not take that volume of blood without someone noticing."

"He's right," Watson confirmed with a nod. "In a hospital, if it's not in a bag for transfusions, it's mopped or wiped up. There really isn't a way to collect it - especially that much."

Even Watson was affected by the scene, if the way he gave the dumpster a quick, wary glance was any indication.

The freak, of course, took Watson's confirmation of his theory as license to swirl about and head back to the street.

"Let me know what you find, Lestrade," he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Watson, who had been following him, paused by the exasperated DI and offered him a rueful smile.

"Well, it's definitely caught his interest, so I don't think it'll take him long to catch the bastard, yeah?" he said, nudging the other man lightly in the upper arm.

Lestrade blew out a breath and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he agreed. "Thank God for small mercies. Oh, hey, you wanna grab a pint tonight? Assuming nothing else blows up, of course."

There was a moment of silence before Lestrade realized what he'd said and went a little green. "Sorry," he muttered, looking down for a few seconds before meeting the doctor's eyes again. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Watson replied. "And I would, but I'm pretty sure you'll be busy tonight."

And Sally, who had been edging steadily closer without realizing it, caught a fleeting glimpse of Lestrade's confused expression just before John Watson backhanded her across the cheek so hard she actually staggered back a few steps before falling flat on her arse in the filthy, muddy alley.

Dimly, above the roaring in her ears and Lestrade's shout of, "Oi! What the fuck was that?!", Sally was feeling so much shock that she thought she might pass out. Then the pain hit, a harsh, throbbing sensation that rolled in sickening waves across her cheek and nose. Loud shouts of her name finally penetrated the stunned haze she was in and she turned her head until she saw Anderson, kneeling next to her and gripping her shoulders hard enough to hurt.

That pain cleared her head a little and she twisted back around, searching for Watson. He was standing in the same spot, staring at her with a face devoid of any expression - but his eyes were blazing with rage and no small amount of contempt. Lestrade was apparantly torn between grabbing Watson or helping Sally, but the other man spoke before he could decide.

"I told you what would happen, Sally," he said calmly, his voice almost . . . conversational. Lestrade. who had chosen to help her, actually stopped mid-step and looked back at Watson, bewilderment stamped all over his face.

"Joh - what - war - the hell?!" he demanded, his expression furious but his voice plaintive. Watson gave him a considering look before answering.

"I told her that if she didn't grow up about Sherlock, I'd retaliate. She's been good, so there was no reason for it, but it seems she couldn't take it anymore and thought she'd test my resolve."

He drew in a breath to continue, but his phone chimed and after a quick look, he turned and loped off - without so much as another word or a look back.

"John, you can't just leave!" Lestrade bellowed after him as he started to follow. "You assaulted an officer!"

"You know where I live," drifted back as Watson rounded the corner. Swearing, Lestrade made to follow, but Fletcher - who had recovered from the shock of seeing a cop get bitch-slapped like an unruly dog - caught his sleeve. Lestrade stopped and glowered at the officer, who flushed but stood firm.

"With respect, Sir, I was there when the doc talked to Donovan. And honestly, Sir, he just pointed out that her calling Holmes a freak was a bit rich, given she's shagging Anderson." He ignored Anderson's sqwack of protest. "Then he told her that he didn't care if she likes Holmes or not, but if she called him 'freak' or . . . soci - no, psychopath, in front of either of them again, he would not hold himself back. He also told her would do damage."

At Lestrade's look of stunned disbelief (which was a near-perfect mirror to Sally's), the uniform shrugged. "I have to say, Sir, it was fair. More than. The last thing he told her was 'Grow up or suffer the consequences.' Donovan had ample warning and ignored it." He paused here, his face darkening. "And honestly, Inspector, if someone called _my_ best mate a freak because he can do something they can't, I'd punch 'em in the face, too. Male or female wouldn't make no never mind to me."

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Sally's harsh breathing, as Lestrade absorbed what he'd seen and heard. After two or three minutes, he looked down at his Sergeant and asked, "Is this true, Sally?"

Her first instinct was to deny it, but Fletcher's testimony had reminded her that two more uniforms had been present, so she swallowed with a wince and nodded. Her DI closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

"So, you are told in no uncertain terms not to call Sherlock a freak again, at least in Watson's hearing, and if you do, he would retaliate physically. And . . . you . . . don't come to me and let me know about it, or the ethics hotline, or even another DI. Then you decide to test a man who survived three tours of Afghanistan on the front lines. I thought you were smarter than that, Sally."

The disappointment in Lestrade's voice stung even more than her cheek did, and Sally looked down. She didn't regret her actions, but she did wish she'd been less obvious.

Luckily, the DI took this as a sign of remorse and his voice softened a little - not that it helped.

"Based on what I've heard, Detective Sergeant Donovan, Doctor Watson's actions were fully justified. You are hereby suspended without pay for three days and when you return, I will be enforcing his dictate. God knows Sherlock is an ass, but he also assists us _at my request_, so he will be treated civilly. I don't care if you like him, but the next person who insults him past the level he insults you will be suspended. If I hear 'freak' again, that person is fired."

Stunned silence fell as everyone in the alley goggled at their DI. He met their gazes without flinching, one by one, before continuing.

"I accept full blame for allowing it to get this out of hand, and I will accept the responsibility, but every person here and at the Yard is, according to their records, an adult. Therefore, you are capable of behaving in a mature, responsible fashion. You will do so, or *I* will take care of it. And I promise, between me and John Watson, you want me. All I'll do is fire you. John'll take your head off."

Since Sally was still crumpled on the ground, no one disputed this.

Anderson, however, finally found his voice.

"And what the f-Holmes?!" he demanded, his voice going a bit shrill. "It isn't like we're unprovoked!"

"I know," Lestrade replied. "But I also know Sherlock, and based on what little I've actually seen firsthand these past few months, this farce has escalated way beyond 'he insults you, you throw one back, and he goes on to the scene.' Sherlock can - and has, actually - try the patience of a saint, but Watson wouldn't have taken action if he didn't feel it was necessary. And don't think it's escaped my notice that Sherlock has been less . . . abrasive . . . in the last couple of months.

"And, regardless, my decision stands," he snapped when Anderson started to object. "I will go speak to both of them tonight and if I feel that their answers aren't satisfactory, then I will bring John Watson in for assault myself. Make no mistake: I am first and foremost an officer of the law. And a huge part of that is being responsible for and to the population I protect. And if I find out that any memeber of MY team has been abusing their rank or position because they don't like someone, then I. Will. End. It."

Another silence fell. This time, it was full of shame. Greg Lestrade was an extremely easy-going, laid-back man, but he had a spine of pure steel. The former had kept too many people from truly understanding the latter.

That was about to change.

Slowly, every officer but two straightened and met their DI's gaze. One by one, they bowed their head in acknowledgement of his authority. Then they calmly returned to their duties, studiously ignorning the woman still sprawled on the ground.

And Sally Donovan's hatred consumed her.

She barely heard Lestrade order Anderson to take her home and didn't even feel the pain that getting up caused. All she could think about was the fact that because of Sherlock bloody Holmes, she was suspended and disgraced. Because of the freak, she now had an official black mark on the record she had worked so hard to build and maintain. Because of an unbalanced psychopath who would eventually turn into a serial killer, she was less than she had been.

That she was in large part responsible for her own actions never crossed her mind.

She nurtured her hate, building it on resentment (and not just from the freak. It was from every person who had ever slighted, dismissed, or overlooked her) and feeding it with self-righteous justification (she had the right to defend herself, even as a preemtive strike). And she waited and watched.

She _observed._

And, a little more than two months later, when a kidnapped girl screamed at the sight of the freak, Sally Donovan smiled.

Her time had come.

_finis_


End file.
